Before leaving the Zone, they’d driven to the cousins’ shared residence in Lorrie’s own ginormous, newer-model SUV. Kip had gone hunting for supplies inside the condo and left Lorrie alone with the trolls’ seemingly inexhaustible food bags.
The temptation had clearly proven too much for her. And to be fair, Kip’s errand truly had taken far longer than anticipated.
“I was getting the costume for G—” At that point, he apparently remembered their need to remain anonymous. Cutting himself off, he pointed at Gwen instead. “I was getting things for her! It’s not my fault our Halloween stuff had been packed away for the winter!”
“Don’t play innocent with me, dude.” Lorrie rounded on him. “You were eating the last of our truffle-infused scalloped potatoes, you dick. I smell it on your breath!”
So did Gwen, regrettably. Until approximately six weeks ago, she’d loved that distinctive, earthy aroma. Dreamed of scraping together enough cash for some truffle Brie, or—if she won the freaking lottery—a wedge of Moliterno al Tartufo. As with coffee, though, the scent of something she’d once adored now turned her stomach.
At least their elderly cabdriver, an exceedingly tolerant werewolf wearing a Grateful Dead tee, apparently preferred energy drinks to coffee as a source of caffeine, wore no cologne, accepted cash, and asked no questions, for which Gwen thanked all the gods and goddesses above.
“Troll cousin, my ass. More like a truffle hound cousin,” Kip muttered. “Gonna start calling you a Lagotto Romagnolo and sell you to the Italians.”
For that, Lorrie elbowed him in the gut. He hunched over on himself, gagging.
Gwen carefully put down her almonds, breathed shallowly, and did her best not to gag along with him.
Their long-suffering driver heaved a long-suffering sigh.
“Sorry, sir.” Lorrie’s apology sounded sincere, and she spoke to Gwen next. “Sorry, hon. Didn’t mean for your stomach to become collateral damage. You okay?”
That was a hard question to answer.
Physically, she was doing fine. In fact, for a pregnant oracle who’d just barely escaped a clutch of brain-slurping zombies before having an unexpected, apocalyptic vision poleax her into extended unconsciousness, she was feeling remarkably good. The healing efforts of Sabrina, their witch friend, during the night had eased the worst of Gwen’s headache and nausea, although tension and fatigue—and her troll companions’ shenanigans—were quickly resurrecting those woes.
Emotionally, however? She’d certainly had better days. Given her failure to contribute anything of consequence to last night’s battle against the zombies, her terrifying uncertainty regarding the apocalyptic vision she’d unwillingly experienced, her utter unpreparedness for what she was about to do, and the immense gravity and humiliating nature of the task, she was choosing to congratulate herself for continuing to function rather than huddling in a corner and gibbering quietly.
And sartorially speaking? Well, she was dressed like Guy Fieri, so…she would classify her current aesthetic state asunfortunate. Especially since she was wearing a troll’s attire, and even her generous frame swam in all the endless fabric. But as long as the enormous flame-bedecked bowling shirt and cargo shorts—or the spiky, bleached-out wig and oversized sunglasses—didn’t entirely fall off at an inopportune moment, she should remainincognito, which was a key component of this early-morning plan.
The conspirators who’d caused the zombie breach had cut off access to and communications from the Zone so that they alone could determine when and how word of the breach spread. They wouldn’t welcome news that several residents had broken through Wall Four and were heading to the home of a SERC councilor to tell him the truth about that breach. If the trio’s identities and plans were discovered, their lives would no doubt be forfeit, so Gwen, Kip, and Lorrie had ensured no one could recognize them.
Still, she hadn’t seen Hugh Blacke in over two decades, and their last encounter had left her devastated and sobbing. She’d prefer to arrive at his apartment disguised as a confident, glamorous woman of obvious success and importance.
Instead, she was reappearing in his life as the ersatz Mayor of Flavortown. Her only comfort: At least she’d refused to wear Kip’s stick-on goatee.
The SUV slowed to a halt across the street from a very fancy-looking, well-lit apartment building. Complete with a uniformed doorman stationed out front, his posture alert as he watched their cab.
No surprise there. Nothing was ever easy in Gwen’s experience.
“I’m good,” she said to Lorrie, then unbuckled her belt, heaved open her door, and clambered down from the SUV.
She thanked the driver, but she didn’t offer him any of her newly acquired cash. If she delayed her departure another second, she’d lose her nerve. Besides, the trolls could easily pay forthe ride with the money they’d also received from Max, their infuriating but surprisingly helpful vampire ally.
“Good luck, Gwen,” the cousins chorused before wrestling over who got to carry the insulated bag of leftovers outside, thus ensuring easy access to its delicious contents.
“Thanks.” Gwen summoned both her resolve and her inner Food Network star. “I’m Guy Fieri, and we’re rolling out.”
A firm push of her hand, and the cab’s passenger doorthumped shut. Determinedly, she crossed the street to the apartment complex and its alert doorman, who was already studying her with understandable suspicion.
The building wasn’t especially tall—five floors, maybe—but it was impeccably maintained and landscaped. Aside from the entry lobby, no light shone through any of the enormous windows generously dotting the cream-colored brick exterior. At this hour, if she somehow managed to reach the demon’s apartment, she’d be waking him from a sound sleep, which wouldn’t improve her odds of success.
Didn’t matter. Shyness and trepidation be damned, she marched up to the entryway without hesitation, because they were running out of time to avert catastrophe.
The twentysomething doorman’s posture straightened still further as she approached. Plastering her most reassuring smile across her face, she halted directly in front of him. Then slapped a hand atop her sliding wig so momentum didn’t fling it from her head.
“Excuse me…” A quick glance at his name tag helped her out. “Excuse me, Haziq. I was hoping to talk to one of the residents of this building. Councilor Hugh Blacke? It’s an emergency.”
Against her own better judgment, she’d followed the demon’s life from afar over the years.
